by Loren Walker
But now I’m an adult, she reminded herself. Free and independent. I can refuse, I can argue, and I can leave whenever I want. I have a place to go home to, if I ever need it.
Bolstered, she knocked on the door.
Emir Ajyo was sitting up in bed, the mattress tilted to a right angle. His beard was longer and bushier than she remembered, and he was very pale, but his eyes were alert. Anandi Ajyo stood next to him. Her pockets gave out little blips and beeps, and her fingers waved over her hips, shutting off whatever was going off. She murmured something to her father, something that Sydel could not hear, and then swept past Sydel and down the corridor.
Emir crooked a finger and beckoned Sydel. “Hello again.”
Sydel dropped her borrowed leather satchel, with her clothes and kits, and came to his bedside.
“Hello, sir,” she said shyly.
“None of that,” Emir corrected, though gently. “Just Emir. And you’re Sydel.” He studied her belongings. “I need to ask, have you had any kind of physical examination from an outside professional? Or have you been self-diagnosing?”
“Me?” Sydel asked, confused. “I’ve just healed myself. Nothing serious has ever happened – well - ” She flashed back to Kings, when Keller beat her. It took some concentration, but she was able to reduce the swelling.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Emir said. “I’d like to run some tests. Just to confirm you’re in sound physical health.”
Sydel nodded. “That’s fair.”
“And mental health.” His blue-green eyes were frank.
“Of course. I understand. I want to fully disclose everything,” Sydel told the man, working to keep her voice even. “I’ve had traumatic experiences, and sometimes it impacts my ability to think and cope with stress. My long-term memory is damaged; in some parts, I’ve lost months.”
“And on occasion,” she admitted. “I’ve heard voices. But I couldn’t tell if they were self-generated, or if I was overhearing the thoughts of others. So, I’ve made the vow to stop using any kind of NINE ability. I want to be a normal human being. I want to help people instead of hurting them.”
“Not even to heal?” Emir asked. “It’s quite the ability, Sydel.”
“I can’t do it anymore,” she said, her voice strained. “I won’t. Please don’t ask me.”
Emir held up a lined hand. “Okay,” he agreed. “Back to the basics, then. You have a good understanding of anatomy, steady hands, a quick mind. You’re a good healer, Sydel, but there are several holes in your education. There’s a lot you can learn, but you’re capable of doing so.”
Sydel nodded, embarrassed at his words, but grateful for the truth.
“And when I am strong enough, I’ll be seeking out independent employment,” Emir cautioned. “It’s a travelling life; it means we take the work as it appears, sometimes with suspicious persons. You can leave whenever you want, or if I start to bore you,” he added with a smile. “But I do ask that you can take care of yourself, your physical health, your mental state, and that you tell me truthfully if you have difficulties. Is that acceptable?”
“Very,” Sydel said.
Emir extended his hand. “So it’s agreed, then.”
Sydel took his hand. She worked to return the pressure of his handshake. “Agreed.”
*
“You know my father will watch over her,” Anandi said, as Renzo drummed his fingers on the bistro table. “And I’ll check in with her, too, when I’m around.”
“I know,” Renzo said. “They’re a good fit, really. Probably the best place for her.” He peered at the tiny Lissome screen. The glowing blue around Anandi’s head made her look almost angelic. “Sorry I couldn’t stay and visit.”
“Another time. I should get back to work anyways. I have about one hundred requests to review.” Her grin faded. “Bad news on Lander. They don’t know if he’ll ever recover. So, the Hitodama are asking for my help. I don’t think I can turn it down, y’know?”
Renzo was silent for a few moments. “He was a pain,” he finally declared. “But it’s still lousy to hear.” He pushed his coffee from one hand to the other. He realized that one leg was bouncing from nerves, and he put his hand on his thigh, calming it.
“In that vein, Ren,” Anandi said, her voice growing quieter. “There’s something I think I should tell you. But I feel guilty for it, because, well - Phaira’s done so much for us.”
Renzo’s insides froze. “What?”
Anandi looked down for several seconds. Then her voice floated through. “When my father was comatose, when we were in Liera for that week, she would leave at night. All night, only coming back in the dawn. And she was… different during the day. Distracted, and tired, and… well, I know there’s some history there with mekaline. And she’s such a good friend, and your sister, but I -”
A rush of perfume in the air. Renzo clicked the Lissome shut, cutting off Anandi’s words, as golden blonde hair swung before him.
“Sorry I’m late,” the woman purred. “I haven’t been to this part of town before.”
She settled into her wrought-iron seat, her slim leather briefcase on her lap, manicured fingers riffling through the contents. She wore a hat that dipped in front of one eye, like some kind of debutante, a long-sleeved dress with a subtle thorn pattern, and heels so high that Renzo had to stop from leaning over and peering at her feet, marveling how someone could be mobile in those.
“So,” the woman began. “You’re Renzo Byrne. Nice to meet you. My name is Jetsun.”
“I figured,” Renzo said curtly. “What’s this about?”
“Right to it? Okay, then,” she agreed. “I’m the legal representation for an investor who doesn’t wish for his name to be said in public.” As she looked over her sunglasses, her gaze wandered to Renzo’s Lissome, cupped under his palm.
“It’s not on,” Renzo said, showing the Lissome in its deactivated square shape.
“Anonymous investor,” Jetsun said. “For this conversation, at least. We have to be cautious. So. keep this to yourself, until you have some time to review it in private.”
She slid over a black folder, an inch thick with paper. “You’re quite inspiring, Mr. Byrne, with what you’ve been able to create with so few resources. There’s a new market for inventive minds like yours.”
She smiled at him. Her teeth were so perfect and white that it made Renzo uneasy.
“And you have a friend who wants to lay claim to it,” he finished.
Jetsun snapped her briefcase shut. “There’s cc contact information in that packet,” she gestured. “Call me if you need anything explained.”
Then she rose to her feet, a perfect hourglass of black, white and gold. Everyone’s heads swiveled to watch as she walked away.
Renzo looked from left to right, and even up, looking for any hint of surveillance before he peeked inside the folder.
The first page was a patent: sparring gloves, with an auto-ricochet feature.
The next page was a diagram of the HALO.
And there were several pages more, and a handwritten note inside:
Renzo - Let’s talk. – T.S.
*
CaLarca sat on Sydel’s bed. The twin mattress was both inviting and terrifying, still infused with so many memories of her immobilility. But in the cold, clear quiet, with only the slightest ache in her back and legs to remind her of the devastation, CaLarca could see that the siblings had taken pains with this room. The furniture was secondhand, but sturdy. The deprivation tank was sleek and modernly designed, tucked behind that sliding door. A specially-designed refuge for someone else.
But for now, this was her home until she recovered, or Phaira returned with news. She’d asked to go with the blue-haired woman on her NINE search, but was turned down.
“I’ve only got funds for one, and one is better,” Phaira instructed her. “One can get into places that two cannot. And you’re still healing.”
You’ll slow me down, CaLarca heard
under her words. And you can’t be trusted.
Perhaps it was for the best. CaLarca couldn’t say how she might react to the charred remains of her family’s farmhouse, the blackened vineyards, years of work ruined. Or what might be found in the rubble. The workings of her mind were enough to deal with: her fears, her memories, her mournings, her burning rage to get out of this room and do something, to find Ganasan and Bennet, to take her revenge. It was stolen from her when Sydel healed Kuri from the knife wound. There would have been such satisfaction to watch his blood soak into that attic floor.
She heard the Arazura’s exit door clang shut. Renzo walked by her door, holding a slim briefcase under his arm. He glanced inside her cabin. “Okay?” he asked curtly.
“Of course,” CaLarca replied.
“We’re taking off, and going on auto,” he told her. “But I need to be left alone.”
“Understood.”
Renzo’s footsteps trailed away. CaLarca heard the click of switches in the cockpit, felt the Arazura come to life under her feet. When the Arazura lifted from its docking magnets, CaLarca stood, taking hold of her cane. The SCKAFO activated immediately as she walked into the corridor, down the stairwell, into the lower level.
Part storage hanger, part training facility for Phaira, this was a place to learn how to incapacitate and kill. Skills she sorely lacked. Something that she needed to cultivate.
Her old life was over, and everything would explode, sooner or later. Kuri and Marette were just underlings. There was still the question of Shantou and Zarek. And there were mechanisms at work here, far beyond what she understood. There would be struggle, and death. And she couldn’t rely on these siblings and their own small problems.
The most powerful of us all, Zarek called her, so many years ago.
At one time, perhaps. Perhaps again.
So CaLarca opened her Lissome to a directory of weapons, the diagram before her in a wide two-feet by three-foot projection. She studied the images for several seconds. Then she broke open her Nadi, let it run through her veins and set her muscles alight. Finally, it poured into her hands, condensing, forming and cooling into a short oak staff.
And she practiced.
*
“Stop in five,” came the announcement.
Crammed into a window seat, Phaira rummaged through her knapsack, looking for gloves. Underneath the neatly folded layers of clothes, there was a bundle of paper, wrapped around a Lissome square, and also something thin and fragile within. Confused, she shook the package.
A Lissome fell into her lap, along with a folded pair of glasses, gray, with thin wire frames. Phaira stared at them. Then, when she was certain that no one on the bus was looking, she tentatively slipped them on.
Surprisingly, everything jumped out at her, even from far away. Every edge of every letter was clear. Cohen was right. She needed glasses.
Smirking to herself, Phaira held the Lissome between her thumb and forefinger, and then read the letter. Renzo’s handwriting was as erratic as ever, a scrawl that travelled in a diagonal.
The money from the Macatias is yours, all the information is in this Lissome. Buy some nanotube bodysuits, or a place of your own, whatever. Do what you want with it. Don’t bring it up again.
The transport dinged; next stop in one minute.
Daro. An apartment building for senior living. Apartment 705. Mr. and Mrs. Nox.
Aeden’s mother and father were waiting when she got off the elevator, with tea and scones and other niceties that she was heartsick to look at. She made apologizes for not coming to see them sooner. She could hardly look at their hungry eyes, their worn bodies on their faded couch; when they pushed a cup of black tea in her hand, she launched into a halting explanation on what happened to Nox, how he was a hero, going back to save those trapped in Kings, how he helped to save her little brother. What a good friend he was to Phaira, how steadfast, how quick to help her and her family. She rattled the facts off, one after another, only the good parts, the best parts of Nox.
In the elevator, over seven floors descending, Phaira removed her new glasses and covered her face with her hand.
But there was still one more visit before her meeting with Ozias.
Another bus, this time into night and poverty, and the other side of Daro. Staring through the window, equally wretched and nostalgic at the familiar, curdling sights, the same FOR SALE and FOR LEASE signs, dirty alcoves, abandoned shoes, faded graffiti. Home. And not just for her, either.
She got off at the station, wincing at the sewage smell in the air, and ducked under a security gate long broken. Soon, the gravel turned into grass, surprisingly lush, given its water source. The river that ran through the city was notorious for its noxious chemical levels. Full of shadows, with a distinct lack of police presence, the Envoy Bridge was the place for teenagers both making out and dealing drugs. In her youth, Phaira traipsed by the river many times in the middle of the night, desperate to be alone.
How strange that her father had chosen this river to have his ashes dumped into. Yes, there was a bronze memorial plate affixed to the rust-and-black fence, at the end of an old fishing platform.
Dasean Byrne, the placard read. At Peace, At Last.
Was that his choice? she wondered, staring at the inscription. It was done cheaply, the script blocky and uneven. Is that all he wanted, all this time? If we were around, if we let him back into our lives?
No. She shook her head, squinting into the wind. Nothing could have changed. She owned him nothing. He was gone long ago, far before his date of death. She still felt the sting on her cheek, the burn on her arm, that familiar, swamping, stifling fear. Strange how it rose to the surface so quickly, so many years later.
Phaira hoisted her body up onto the corner of the railing, braced her legs against the metal, and stared across the river to the cityline. Her father’s plaque was beside her thigh. She put her hand over it, the edge cutting into her palm.
A surge of cars came onto the bridge, their headlights streaking over her like a meteor shower.
She finally let tears form in her eyes. They grew cold in the wind. She let them blow away, the runaway beads streaking a path across her temples.
*
From her perch on the railing, they would be nearly eye level. He’d stand just between her knees, take her face with his gloved hands, and kiss her until his mouth went numb, and everything grew hazy and hot, just like every time before, when she’d pressed her strong, arching body into his, sparking a heat that ran down every limb, overwhelming the cold in his fingers and toes.
A hundred times, Theron reached for the release on the door of his black ground transport. Phaira was still there, down the embankment and on that filthy fishing pier, sitting on the corner of the railing, staring out into the water. She hadn’t moved in an hour. He should just get out of this transport and stop watching, actually do something for once other than watch other people.
But CaLarca’s face floated through his mind, and everything went cold. Don’t be so stupid, his logic lectured. There were facts to weigh. Phaira was affiliated with CaLarca; she’d housed her, healed her, and never told Theron about it, when she knew what that woman and her friends had done to him.
If she was capable of that, what else was she hiding? And what happened in Kings that she was so keen to keep secret?
He let his hand fall from the door, but kept his eyes on the dark silhouette.
Finally, Phaira left the pier, and trudged downtown. Theron followed, keeping a block between them.
Outside of the local police precinct, someone was waiting on the front steps. Detective Daryn Ozias, extending her hand to Phaira.
After a long hesitation, Phaira took it, gave it one firm shake, and then let go. Then her head turned, that sharp profile scanning the streets.
The drive back to the airport was long, silent, and mostly thoughtless, save for a call from his cousin, Jetsun.
“Well?” he barked, annoyed at the interru
ption. “Did you give Renzo the paperwork?”
“I did, but I’m not calling about that, Theron.” He could hear the tremor in her voice. “Grandfather is dead.”
Theron stared at the road ahead.
Not yet, his mind pleaded. Not yet.
“They found him this morning,” Jetsun continued. “They think it was a stroke. I know he’s been weak for so long, but still. Do you - I mean, how do you want to proceed? Sir?”
Sir.
Because he was next in line to lead the syndicate.
Theron shut his eyes and let the auto-drive take over, leaning back into the leather seat.
After several long moments, he spoke. “Make the arrangements as soon as possible. No autopsies. Inform the families. Keep the media out. I’ll be in touch when I get back from my meeting.”
*
The old man lifted his head when Theron entered the basement. Shackled to the wall, clothes splattered with blood, his one blackened, bruised eye was open enough to shine with hatred.
A tiny knock against Theron’s skull. Theron shook his head, tapping the half-circle of silver looped under his hair.
“You can’t lock me away forever,” Kuri Nimat spat. “I have friends, followers, who will be searching for me. They’ll find out that the militia sold me to you.”
“I’m not going to lock you away forever,” Theron said. “I just want to know everything that’s lodged in your memory, and how your NINE abilities work.”
“I won’t talk,” the man said with a sneer. “Beat me all you like, I won’t do it.”
Theron gestured to Kuri’s swollen eye. “That was one of my employees, getting carried away.” He walked in front of Kuri, his hands behind his back. “You should know that I don’t work like the rest of my family does: messy, violent, emotional. Stupid,” he added with emphasis. “I have my own ways of doing things. Of getting what I want.”
He stopped at a door with a brass handle. “Guess what this is.”
The door swung open. Inside was a cell, six-feet squared, windowless, the walls covered with thick fiberglass wedges, arranged in horizontal and vertical patterns.